


Nightshift

by GarGoyl



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alin is a bad boy, Chief Warden!Ivan, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Soviet Union, Verbal Abuse, Violence, dark themes, prison fights, prison!au, things will get ugly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-03
Updated: 2017-04-03
Packaged: 2018-09-28 03:04:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10067633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GarGoyl/pseuds/GarGoyl
Summary: Soviet!AU – Times have changed and politics along with it, and former literature student Alin Vasile has ended up doing a very unlikely job to support himself and his little brother Andrei. Surprisingly though, he has what it takes and he does work hard, but with a boss like Ivan Braginski it’s never difficult to get in trouble. Reader request, three chaps at most!





	1. Chapter 1

**CHAPTER 1**

A/N – Hello everyone! Before you flame the hell out of this fic, allow me to fully acknowledge the fact that it is probably one of the worst crap I’ve ever regretless written and furthermore, I am doing this for a dear friend who has requested not this AU but this pairing and the… outcome. Also, bear in mind that this is NOT SUPPOSED to be historically accurate in any way, I did not do any special research aside from what I used to hear back then, so don’t get your hopes up in that respect. That being said, enjoy!

_Andrei – Moldova_

_Tsvetan Borisov - Bulgaria_

* * *

 

Head in his hand, Alin watches absently as his little brother pokes petulantly at the potato stew, the fork which is slightly too large for Andrei’s small hand clinging against the chipped porcelain. They’re both hunched over one corner of the kitchen table, randomly open school books, a few notebooks, pencils and the like occupying the rest of it.

“Katya cooks better than you,” Andrei points eventually, like he always does every time his older sibling presents him with some uninspired crap because he couldn’t be bothered with anything else (and the potato stew is two days old, too).

Of course she does, and it’s one of the many reasons why Andrei is overjoyed when Alin must work overtime and leave him in the care of their cheerful neighbor, herself a mother of three. Katya and her husband Eduard are gentle, softspoken and they have a way with kids, while Alin (even if he skillfully conceals it most of the time) is easily exasperated. 

“Eat up, you have homework to do and it’s getting late.”

“And you forgot to buy summer salami!”

Alin scowls and purses his mouth into a grimace – it’s the second nightshift in a row tonight and he’s slept all day, shopping and pretty much anything else be damned. Of course, he wishes he could do better for Andrei, better than this rented shithole of an apartment, better food on the table, better than his old clothes and books, a better school and altogether better perspectives. But their parents are gone, Alin is still very young himself – only twenty-three - and with the change of circumstances he has had the earth swept from under his feet, so all he’s been able to do was to barely keep things afloat. The hard way.

“Finish that and shut up,” he says dryly, yet his voice lacking the harshness to make it serious, and the little boy just sticks his tongue out in reply.

“Katya says you should get married,” Andrei points philosophically, taking another bite, and waves his fork. “She says that you must have a girl somewhere, but you’re keeping her all to yourself.”

“But that’s the idea about having a girl,” Alin replies and stands to put his empty plate in the sink. “You don’t _share_ ,” he adds and chuckles. It’s kind of early to be having this sort of conversations with Andrei, so he’ll smoothly dismiss the subject for now. Yeah, he’s good at doing that in a large variety of circumstances, so it shouldn’t be a problem.

“You never tell me anything,” his little brother presses, pushing the food aside and picking up a notebook. “Eduard tells us a lot about what he does at the factory, all the stuff he makes and fixes every day and it sounds really interesting!”

“I don’t work in a factory, I told you that before,” Alin grumbles with a sigh. It’s late by now and he digs inside the worn wardrobe which will probably collapse one of these days if no one does anything about it and retrieves his jacket, stuffing his keys in the pocket. He throws a look around, wondering what he’s forgotten this time and will realize only when he’s already in the bus. “Do your homework this century and go to sleep. I’ll make toast tomorrow for breakfast, okay?”

Andrei rolls his eyes.

* * *

 

Outside it’s started to rain and even if Alin crosses the large, concrete courtyard with large strides, he still gets pretty much soaked until he reaches the metal door with the peeling grey paint and makes his way inside, away from the downpour. He walks down the corridor lit by dirty, flickering bulbs with blue light, shaky from the cold and cursing under his breath all the way to the locker room. 

“You’re late, _comrade_ , it’s ten minutes past nine thirty.”

But Alin turns his back on the man who has just said that – a green-eyed, pale Bulgarian who has done boxing since high-school and is therefore much more suited for this job (and who mysteriously manages to troll all his shifts…) – and begins taking off his street clothes.

“Fuck you, _comrade_ Borisov,” he replies, hurrying to get out of the wet garments.

The other bursts into laughter and a rough towel hits the back of his head next, but he takes it anyway and wipes the moisture off thoroughly before reaching for his uniform.

“Damn, you’re such a damsel in distress, Vasile,” the Bulgarian states amused and a soft, repeated click resounds in the otherwise deserted locker room as the man lights up a cigarette.

Waves of fresh, suffocating smoke drift into the already polluted atmosphere as Alin walks up to the sink to hang the now damp towel on the bare nail next to it and his gaze accidentally drops onto his own reflection in the stained mirror. He looks rather awful these days and he’s sure his former classmates from the university wouldn’t even recognize him now.

The light-brown, coppery tinged hair which had once looked so poetic is cropped very short, close to his skull, his cheeks have lost all that childish plumpness from before , there are dark circles under his eyes from all the lost sleep and the paleness of his skin sticks out against the navy blue of the uniform vest. Oh, and there’s also that ominous-looking dent in the bridge of his nose, glorious mark of the military instruction days he’s surprisingly survived somehow. But even with all that, his slender build and delicate limbs make him look much younger than he really is – his boots look too large for his legs and the leather belt with the faded iron buckle hangs heavily around his hips - and as a result all the other guards pick on him.

“Straighten that collar, _comrade_ ,” Borisov teases him. “Braginski is in tonight and we wouldn’t want him to catch you looking unkempt.”

Of course, Tsvetan, like many others, must have wondered at first how the hell did the Romanian land this job in the first place – and he still acts like he’s not clarified to this day because Alin is kind of short-fused upon occasion and that’s fun to watch – but the truth is that the delicate former university student can be quite rough (albeit while not necessarily comfortable with it) and violent when the circumstances call for it. In fact, the misleading element of his youthful appearance makes him all the more effective when it comes to striking fear into someone who gets on his bad side. But well, this job and this environment has really brought out the worst in all of them.

“Why the hell is he in tonight?” Alin grumbles, struggling with the worn belt buckle which has gotten crooked somehow and as a result is an absolute pain in the ass to click in place.

“Because – I heard – there might be some trouble coming up with the new inmates,” the Bulgarian replies, taking a long, thoughtful drag of his cigarette. But his serious expression dissipates quickly, replaced by a broad, mischievous smile. “You weren’t thinking of taking a nap under my nose, were you?”

**_To be continued_ **

 


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER 2**

A/N – Hello my dear readers! And here I am, back with the second chap of this outstanding shit. Enjoy!

 ** _Warnings_** : violence, verbal abuse, heavy swearing

_Nikolai Arlovski – nyo!Belarus_

_Toris Laurinaitis - Lithuania_

_Raivis Galante – Latvia_

* * *

 

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Alin grumbles under his breath. He could use a nap though, a week-long one if possible too. “Where’s Nikolai?”

Tsvetan blows a soft cloud of smoke, taking his sweet time. In a couple of minutes there will be time for them to start their rounds down the halls, making sure all inmates stick to curfew and no one is up doing hell knows what shit, and he’d rather sit down and dawdle a bit more before another night of being up on his feet.

“You know Nikolai, he’s always early. Was ready when I got here and already started,” the Bulgarian replies at last, motioning with his head towards the door. “Don’t get what he’s so eager about…”

Alin finishes getting dressed in his uniform and hangs the heavy truncheon to his belt, sighing. He doesn’t give a fuck about Nikolai and his over-eagerness beyond the extent that it can become dangerous, but the Chief Warden taking a nightshift is bad news on principle. It means trouble of some kind being envisaged and the Romanian genuinely feels that his job is shitty enough even on a normal, uneventful day. He’s sick of the constant proximity of human filth and there’s always fear on the back of his mind, because things can get very ugly on either side of the bars. With the current organization they’re painfully understaffed, only three, maximum four guards per shift on each prison block and only the guards manning the fence towers and those posted at the gates are actually armed. It’s the machine guns posted up on the towers which keep small feuds from breaking into full-out riots when everyone is out in the yard having their daily walks, but inside it’s a different kind of hell.

“Come on,” says Borisov standing up and putting out his cigarette into the half-full, cracked glass ashtray. “Ladies first, please.” As they head out of the locker room, he delivers a hearty slap to Alin’s backside, chuckling.

“ _Futu-ți mama ta… (A/N - fuck your mother)_ ” the younger mutters under his breath and Tsvetan chuckles louder, because he knows a couple of Romanian swears (and has always been genuinely impressed by the fact that Alin can swear for ten minutes without any repetition, he’s _that_ creative when it comes to cursing!)    

From there they part ways and Alin takes the first floor, just to see Tsvetan cursing as he stumbles blindly up another flight of stairs (since Nikolai came in first, he took the ground floor, that fucking, skittish bastard!) There aren’t many light bulbs to begin with and at night they’re dimmed – mainly to save power – so the guards do their rounds mostly groping in a disturbing semi-obscurity, where the slightest noise makes them flinch and the moving shadows keep them on edge.

Alin hates night shifts.

He hates the stronger smell of disinfectant, the unnatural quiet broken by random moans, sighs and the occasional snore and above all the thought that under the cover of darkness someone is planning to drive a nail into their sleeping cellmate’s skull or slice their throat open with a shard. And it’s all the more pain in the ass when they get transfers or new ‘merchandise’. By lucky accident, the two new inmates everyone is fussing over – a Turk and a Greek who were caught trafficking various prohibited goods and occasionally helping emigrants – are crammed up in a cell on the second floor along with four other people.

Inside the cells, moonlight filters through the narrow, grated windows, making all the sleeping faces bone-white, gives an ashen color to the rough, standard blankets covering the slumbering forms curled up in the bunks and Alin finds this sight deeply unsettling.  

“So it’s true,” someone whispers suddenly. “Here they put the cutest guards on the night shift, I wonder why…”

A low chuckle follows and the Romanian stops dead in his tracks. What do you know, someone new here as well… Fuck. Teeth gritted, he wheels around and stalks back to the door of the cell the comment had come from.  As he does, he sees one of the inmates in the bottom bunks sitting on the edge of the bed, observing him. The man has his back to the window, his face in shadow, but Alin intuits his grin nevertheless.

“What?” he asks coldly, lifting his chin. “Did you piss in your bed?” The guard tilts his head expectantly, truncheon weighed in one hand as the blunt tip taps the open palm of the other.

The man laughs. “Do you speak from experience?”

Others burst into more or less muffled laughter too at this and Alin slams the truncheon violently against the bars, making an infernal noise. “SHUT! THE! FUCK! UP! NOW!” When the laughter dies down he leans against the door and says “I don’t piss in my bed. I only piss in your soup.” Of course, he doesn’t do that – though he could - but the inmates don’t know and can’t check either.

The inmate who started it is no longer laughing. He stands up now – he’s quite massive and when he rolls up his shoulders large muscles bulge under the rough, striped jacket, but Alin stands his ground even when he sees him approach. If he shows the slightest weakness now he’s fucked.

“What did you say, pretty boy?” the giant hisses, gripping the bars and flexing his fingers around them in a motion which clearly suggests he could do the same to the young guard’s neck.

“You heard me the first time,” Alin says firmly. “Now go the fuck back to your bed and be quiet!”

The man snorts, shaking his head, and in the next second his arm shoots through the bars, grabbing the guard’s arm, twisting and pulling in the same time and the Romanian’s back is slammed violently against the iron bars, the air knocked out of his lungs. His other hand covers Alin’s mouth to keep him from screaming, knocking his head against the hard metal in the process.

For one brief moment he’s dizzy, vision swimming from the blow and the lack of oxygen and he’s confused – what… he promised Andrei something… something… breakfast?... to make toast for breakfast! – the truncheon has dropped from his hand and rolled away on the floor but his now free hand digs into his pocket and grips the set of keys, letting them spread between his fingers like a fan of spikes and then he pulls them out and drives them repeatedly into the arm which keeps him from breathing.

His attacker groans in pain and twists his other arm (and it hurts horribly) but Alin drives his free elbow backwards – a blind thrust because he could always hit the bars instead of his target, but he’s in luck and hits in full, viciously, until the other finally lets go, stumbles to pick up his truncheon from the ground and hits the man through the bars – in his side, upper arms, shoulders, everywhere he can reach, releasing a string of curses in pretty much all the languages he knows until the other is on the ground, curled up into a ball and struggling to get away.

The other inmates in the cell are perfectly silent and motionless in their bunks.          

“I’d skip lunch tomorrow if I were you,” Alin says through heavy pants, poking the prisoner one last time before smoothing his uniform and walking away.

Fuck, he was so scared just now! His heart is still slamming violently against his ribcage as he leans against the wall, waiting to catch his breath. When the man grabbed him, especially when he covered his mouth, Alin was sure the bastard had something – anything sharp could do the trick – and expected to have it thrust into his back!

“Fuck!... Fuck my life!” he mutters absently, until he discerns a familiar shadow standing at the end of the corridor, where the main staircase is.

Borisov stands there with one hand on his hip, tapping his foot, his standard issue whistle in the other. And of course, being the fucking bastard he is, he waits until Alin is not ten feet from him to blow it, startling the younger guard.

“The fuck are you doing, Vasile? Huh? Are you fucking around?” he asks teasingly, poking the other’s flushed cheek with two fingers.   

Alin wants to punch him in the face so hard right now, but he only says “Yeah, there’s someone new back there who needed some more ‘orientation’”. He can’t actually tell Borisov that he was grabbed and nearly strangled, because that only happens when you’re careless and Alin _was_ kind of careless just now.

Tsvetan nods and sighs.  “Anyway, I need you to come with me now. I think there’s gonna be trouble up there, I heard some shit… That fucking Turk is gonna pull up a stunt, because he’s been thrown in with one of his former suppliers, some guy named Toris, they’re in the same cell. He thinks this guy talked and stuff.”

“Who the fuck put them in the same cell?!”

The Bulgarian shrugs and glances down the stairs, towards the ground floor. He sees nothing, scowls and blows his whistle again. “Where the fuck is Nikolai?! I swear, if that little shit is taking a nap somewhere, I’m kicking his ass like you’ve never seen!”

* * *

 

By the time they make it up to the second floor, Nikolai in tow (because to his luck the Belarusian wasn’t asleep after all), they can already hear the tell-tale ruckus of conflict. Inmates from the other cells are up too, piling up at the doors to see and hear what the fuss is about and Tsvetan drags his truncheon against the bars as he walks, slamming it occasionally to push them backwards. But it’s in vain, because for some reason everyone wants to see the guards kicking someone’s ass.

“Okay, this is gonna suck,” the brunet warns, taking out his keys to unlock Adnan and Karpussi’s cell.

As the three guards march in, the well-built Turk already has his hands around his adversary’s throat and much to their misfortune his Greek partner and two other men have his back. Also to their misfortune they’re not intimidated by the guards and a fight breaks out.  Alin gets kicked in the stomach so hard that he doubles over, just in time to see a young blond boy – indeed he can’t be more than fifteen – inching towards the open door cell and eventually slipping outside in the corridor.

“Hey! Don’t let him get away!” Nikolai shouts, pretty uselessly because the boy can’t actually make it farther than the yard, which is continuously swept by the searchlights of the guard towers.

The Romanian does go after the boy though - because if he gets to be apprehended or worse, gunned down by the guards outside it’s proof they haven’t been doing their job – chases after him down the dark corridor until he sees the small blond tripping over his own feet in panic and collapsing near the wall.

“HEY! WHERE THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU’RE GOING, HUH?!” Alin yells at the hunched form, prodding them with the truncheon. “GET THE FUCK UP! ON YOUR FEET, NOW!”   

The boy looks up at last, eyes wide and face streaked with tears and he’s shaking so badly that he can’t haul himself up.

“What’s your name?”

The little blond sobs loudly, wiping his nose with the striped sleeve. “R-Raivis…” he stutters. “P-Please… I haven’t done anything, I wanna go home! I w-want my mom…” he whines and refuses to budge.

“Get up,” says Alin sternly. He wants to go home too, he wants his mother back too, but that’s just not gonna happen. Any other guard would ‘soften’ little Raivis’ bones for talking back and being a brat, but he can’t hit the boy, not when he’s so small and skinny and already a mess. He may be brutal, but he’s not barbaric and that’s something he’s about to pay for, very soon.

He brings Raivis back to the cell by the scruff of his neck and closes the door to make sure no one else gets funny ideas. By the end of it two men are lying unconscious on the ground aside from the apparent informant – Toris – who was the first to pass out at the Turk’s hands and they drag Sadik Adnan away in cuffs to be put into solitary confinement for the time being.

Borisov, who has been on the receiving end of most of the opponents’ punches and kicks, walks with a slight limp and is sure to sport a black eye by morning. Nikolai, who has only got a bleeding nose out of this, is off to report the incident and its outcome to the Chief Warden and shortly afterwards both Alin and the Bulgarian are called to Braginski’s office.

* * *

 

Now, _this_ is really bad news, Alin ponders as the two of them make their way across the wet concrete, to the administrative block. He’s never gotten called to report to the Chief Warden before – he’s only met the man briefly upon his enlisting – but he’s heard tales of terror from those who had the bad luck to be.

“We’re fucked, aren’t we?” the Romanian asks. He already took two painkillers for the aching arm – his left wrist might be sprained after all - and threw up his dinner, so he should be fine for now.

“Um… “ Tsvetan replies uncertain. “You know, I had a bottle of rakia stuffed at the bottom of my locker… and it’s gone.”          

“You fucking asshole… “ Alin mutters, numb with dread. “We’re fucked,” he concludes.

It’s pleasantly warm in the administrative block and the hall even has a cheap carpet on, and Alin stares down pensively at their messed-up uniforms and dirty boots, envisaging getting at least some hell in that regard. The Chief Warden’s office has an antechamber and there, behind a large wooden desk, sits Braginski’s _perfect_ assistant, Gilbert Beilschmidt, who’s always wearing a pristine uniform, has a perfect German posture and a perfect German stick up his ass. As the two guards approach, the albino looks up from his papers and stands up, gracing them with an all-knowing smirk.

 “Looks like you’re in trouble, _comrades…_ keseseseses”

**_To be continued_ **

A/N – Okay, so I saved the best part for the final chap because this shit was getting way too long and it’s very late. But stay tuned, because it will be up soon!


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER 3**

A/N – Hello everyone! Glad to see no flames yet, but I’m figuring that after this last chap they might pop ;) Aaaaand without further ado, let’s finish this and make all this trouble worth it. Enjoy!

 ** _Warnings_** : more violence, verbal abuse, non-con, #someonegetsitbuttheyaskedforitsosorryaboutthat

* * *

 

Alin bites his bottom lip, really wanting to say something ‘heartfelt’ to _comrade_ Beilschmidt, but knowing that it would probably be a terrible idea. Aside from that, he’s pretty much terrified, watching numbly as the albino stands from behind his desk to knock on the double doors of his boss’s office.  He pokes his head inside and a few words are exchanged, then the German straightens his back and holds the door open for the two guards solemnly.

As they walk in, Tsvetan ‘accidentally’ steps on his foot, soiling the leather that Beilschmidt must have spent hours polishing to perfection, and apologizes emphatically.

The Romanian takes a deep breath, trying to calm his nerves, although that’s easier said than done. His stomach is in knots as he futilely tries to figure the outcome of this meeting beforehand. Whatever shit Tsvetan did – because he mentioned alcohol but who the fuck knows what else he’d got stashed in his locker? – there’s no danger (this never happens under the current regime) for the two of them to be off the job, but pretty much anything else could be on the plate. Especially when it comes to military or prison staff, the administration has a strong belief in achieving the redemption of employees through the application of a wide range of disciplinary measures.

Alin hopes that these will not take the form of several double shifts or even detention, because his little brother will rip his head off (Andrei likes spending time at Katya’s, but there is a downside to it in being asked to do house chores and help with the smaller children). But then again, a beating sounds even worse, considering the bad shape he’s already in.

The Chief Warden Ivan Braginski is sitting behind his desk, scribbling something down hurriedly and presently doesn’t acknowledge them with as much as a glance. He’s a handsome bastard, well-built but still lean, one of the very few men on which the rough, unpretentious uniform actually looks good and his ashen-blond hair, neatly parted on the side falls onto his forehead dramatically. Eventually, he finishes his task and looks up at the two guards with a neutral expression, even if there’s a (ominous) gleam of amusement in his violet eyes.

“Well, _comrades_ ,” Braginski says, standing in one smooth motion, like a deadly predator. “Unfortunately, you’re here because some recent irregularities have been brought to my attention subsequent to this evening’s events.” He sighs. “At least everything ended up well for now, but I’m told that there was a great probability of things going downhill…”

Alin tries to straighten his back under the Chief Warden’s gaze but his stomach hurts, his knees feel weak and he’s almost forgotten how to breathe. Next to him, the Bulgarian looks impassible, probably already planning gruesome ways to get back at Nikolai for this.

“Well? Is there something you’d like to say?”

Met with thick, embarrassed silence, Ivan clears his throat softly and reaches out for something and only then Alin notices that there’s a truncheon at the ready on the Russian’s desk, placed demonstratively on top of a pile of papers. But the Chief Warden produces something else for now, namely a small, thin bottle with no label and homemade cork. Only a mouthful or two of the golden liquid are left on the bottom. He sighs again.

 “ _Comrade_ Borisov, do you drink during working hours?” the Russian asks sweetly. “Are you drunk right now?”

Tsvetan shakes his head quickly, but makes no sound.

“No? Then maybe… just sometimes, da?” Ivan presses and there’s a shift in his tone and posture, there’s something almost flirty in it. This is bad. Very bad. “This is _your_ bottle, isn’t it?”

“Yes, _comrade_ Chief, but I-”

The Russian lays a hand on the brunet’s shoulder, stopping him, and for a brief moment Alin entertains the mad, selfish hope that once Braginski has taken out all his pent-up fury on the Bulgarian, he will escape cheaply. But then logic kicks in and he realizes that there’s no way in hell things could be so simple. He was called in here as well for a reason.

In the next moment Ivan picks up the truncheon and brings it under the younger guard’s nose, making him flinch. “And you, _comrade_ Vasile, do you know what this object is for?”  he asks, even gentler.

Alin whispers a half-choked ‘yes’ and catches the Bulgarian’s eyes on him, silently saying ‘take it like a man’. 

“Please enlighten us, then,” asks Ivan in the same tone, tilting his head curiously.

Alin’s thoughts immediately fly back to the regulations manual, because he’s always been a nerd. He’s probably the only one who’s actually read it from cover to cover.  “I-It is used to maintain order.” That was the definition, right?

Braginski looks almost taken aback by the stiff, over-formal choice of words, while Tsvetan lets out a snort quickly masked as cough. “To _maintain order_?”    

“I mean to discipline inmates…”

“Da,” Ivan agrees. “Do you know how to use it, _comrade_?”

While nodding, Alin brusquely realizes what this is about. That bastard Nikolai must have seen that he didn’t hit the little Latvian boy, instead letting him go with a mere warning. Right, a guard’s job is to maintain order through terror and in that spirit he’s just fucked up monumentally.

 “…. then show me. Here, discipline _comrade_ Borisov, maybe he wakes up, da,” Ivan suggests smoothly, placing the truncheon in his sweaty hand. It’s longer and heavier than the standard issue too, probably custom made for the Chief Warden.

The Romanian weighs the weapon in his hand uncertain as he looks at Tsvetan. He really feels like hitting him right now – because it was _his_ fucking bottle! – but the man has taken enough already tonight and besides, later on Braginski might require him to return the favor to Alin. The brunet returns his gaze and nods discreetly.

With a grimace he’s not even aware of, Alin raises the truncheon and hurls it into the other guard’s bicep, nearly making him lose his balance. The Bulgarian grits his teeth and clenches his fists, but makes no sound.

“Again.”

But Alin hesitates - calculating how he could cause the least damage - and he’s doomed.   

“See, you’re not supposed to _think_ _about_ it,” Braginski points, moving from his place and taking the truncheon from the Romanian’s hand. “Just do it.” Saying that, he applies a swift blow to the small of Alin’s back.

The pain is mind-numbing and before he realizes what happened, the younger guard is on his knees on the floor, unable to breathe, feeling like he’s just been cut in half. Tears prick his eyes and he barely fights back a sob. He knows he must get up, most likely only to be hit again and the thought makes him sick, faint.

“ _Comrade_ Borisov, see you on Friday, da,” he hears Ivan say above him dismissively, shoving a paper into Tsvetan’s hands. “Until then you’re covering all shifts and I don’t care if your mother dies in the meantime or anything. You will be here, da?” Friday is three days from now – which means roughly six twelve-hour shifts with no break. “Now off you go!”

Tsvetan gets out quickly and, as Alin manages to scramble back to his feet, Ivan pokes his head out of the office briefly.

“ _Comrade_ Beilschmidt, whatever you hear, don’t come in, da?”     

Through the open door Alin sees the albino’s expression, there’s no trace of amusement anymore and his eyes are wide with a hidden horror, his face sheet-white. He realizes that he’s still gripping the edge of the desk, which he’s used for support to get up in the first place, but before he can move away from it the door closes and he feels the Russian’s hand on his shoulder.

“Does it hurt?” Ivan asks softly.

“Yes, _comrade_ Chief.”

To say that it hurts, even horribly so, is an understatement. And Alin must have gone soft or something because surely, he must have taken worse, especially during his military instruction. Only, now that he thinks of it… this is the kind of blow seriously meant to cause damage, not just pain. He hopes he won’t have to go to the infirmary at the end of this.

Ivan nods and stands in front of him, gripping his chin to force him to look up. Once again his hand is gentle – much too gentle – and Alin is numb with horror at what’s to come.

“You know, _comrade_ Vasile,” the Russian says. “When you first got here, _comrade_ Beilschmidt said you wouldn’t last five days in this place, but I disagreed. “ Ivan pauses and smiles. ”I said you wouldn’t last two.”

He ponders then, watching the young guard exhale slowly. “But here you are, almost two years later. I’m proud of you. That’s why, I will make one thing _very_ clear. This is not a prison for political dissidents, although I think those are by far the worst, da. What I mean is that it’s not a place for delicate people who… have gone to university for example (Alin flinches at the mention of that), who are unused to physical violence and are easy to break with the mere sight of bars. No, this is a common prison and this lot is the worst of the worst. There’s no other way but to be very tough with these bastards and if I’m disciplining you now – and I _will_ discipline you – it’s for your own good, da? Do you understand?”

“Yes, _comrade_ Chief.”

Alin’s gaze slips onto the truncheon abandoned on the desk and he winces as he feels a sharp jab of pain in his lower back. He hopes that his right kidney is still in one piece.

“So then, “ Ivan says casually. “I could punish you very badly right now, or… maybe there could be an alternative.” The Chief Warden leans forward and his silvery strands almost brush the side of Alin’s cheek. “I’m not saying it’s a better alternative, but one demonstrating the ability to adapt, da. One which shows… liberation from useless scruples.”

Alin blinks, fearing the worst. Will Braginski ask him to go back, drag little Raivis out of bed and beat the hell out of him?! Is this the price for letting him off the hook?! And if so-

“I would like you to fuck me, nice and hard,” says Ivan neutrally, as if he were talking about the weather. “Can you do that?”

The Romanian is aware of this practice between certain men on a theoretical level, he knows that some inmates are rumored to do it, but surely it isn’t something he’s ever expected from the Chief Warden. All in all, he doesn’t know much about it and doesn’t want to find out either. But then his gaze trails back to the truncheon, his back still hurts like hell and his other options are grim.

“H-How-…”

Braginski chuckles, good-humoredly. Has he planned this all along?! “ _Comrade_ , you do have a girlfriend, da?”

Alin nods.

“What is her name?”

“Lilia.”

Of course, he knows no one with this name, there is no Lilia and no girlfriend in general, because Alin can’t get himself to tell any girl that he works as a prison guard. What woman in her right mind would date a prison guard?! Alin is a man with a dark, dirty secret – his job.

“And you fuck her, da?”

“I… uh…”

“And you will marry her, da? Because if you don’t, that’s not very nice,” the Russian points and Alin wants to laugh hysterically. Why is everyone so hell-bent on seeing him married? Does he look too carefree or something? “Anyway, I want you to fuck me like you fuck her, nice and hard, until she screams your name because you please her so much, da?”

“Are you serious, _comrade_ Chief?” Alin asks softly, now with the absolute certainty that whatever he does or says things will go to hell like he’s never seen anyway.

Ivan smiles, a subtle, wicked smile filled with shameless want. “Yes,” he says and reaches out around the young guard’s body, dipping his hands into the back of his uniform trousers, fingers digging lightly into the soft skin they encounter underneath. He does so without any difficulty, dodging the rough leather belt with the smoothness of a practiced gesture.

The Romanian looks baffled, because he has no idea what to do next, seriously if Braginski was a girl he could pull it off acceptably, but he _isn’t_ , so-… And as usual he’s more focused on the task at hand than on the feeling of the other’s fingers on his skin.      

Ivan grabs Borisov’s bottle and flips the cork off with his thumb, offering it to him with a shrug and a random observation as to how this weak juice will not probably do much good.

Okay. He just needs to focus. Think of something pleasant, no, something arousing. He tries to think of Andrei’s math teacher, Miss Hedervary. She’s cute and those tiny black-rimmed glassed don’t look half-bad on her nose… But then again she’s a teacher, he debates as Ivan fumbles with his belt buckle, undoes his trousers and lowers them on his hips. A _math_ teacher, ughhh… The mouthful of alcohol has made him warm and lightheaded, but also unable to muster useful reason.

And to think he’s only in this shit because of fucking Borisov! Clearly, it’s Borisov he should be fucking, nice and hard until he screams, he thinks as his fingers find purchase in the Russian’s uniform jacket and pulls it open. It even has the same cheap tobacco scent as the Bulgarian. Buttons come undone and he teases the soft skin of the other with calloused fingertips, eyes closed as he inhales the familiar scent. So then… Tsvetan it is (certainly not a thought that would ever occur to him while sober and less nerve-wracked…).   

It’s not easy to get hard on annoyance alone though, but as he works to rid the Russian of his trousers clumsily Ivan decides to offer a helping hand, large and warm and with skillfully flexing fingers and Alin gasps loudly, very nearly uttering a _very wrong_ name. He grips Braginski’s strong, muscular thighs and manages to haul him up onto the hard desk despite the painful protests of his own lower back. Then he has a moment of uncertainty, but Ivan pulls him closer between his legs and guides him in.

It kind of hurts, on top of everything else which is currently hurting, because the Russian’s fingers greedily explore and dig into every bit of exposed skin, including the spot he’s hit earlier. Alin grits his teeth, one hand pressing Ivan’s shoulders into the desk as he thrusts erratically, trying to stroke him with the other in the same time and inwardly releasing a long string of profanities. There’s a hard scowl on his face, but Ivan keeps smiling disturbingly as he treads his fingers through the short hairs on Alin’s nape.

Eventually, the Chief Warden comes with a satisfied grunt and sits up, supporting the younger slumped against him, who’s on the verge of passing out.  

“Now, _comrade_ Vasile, “ Ivan says softly, barely panting as he fixes his clothing, again with the precise gestures of someone used to impromptu quickies. “If you tell anyone about this, I will be sure to return the favor. Before I kill you, da?”

**THE END**

Okay, this is officially the #worstshitever


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